The Landscape of the Heart
by Bedelia
Summary: Following Ron's death, Hermione tackles driving lessons, pottery class, jogging, renovating, and — scariest of all — falling in love again.
1. Chapter 1

**The Landscape of the Heart**

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><p><em><strong>Warnings<strong>__: Character death (not Neville or Hermione). Some Ron/Hermione scenes. Epilogue compliant.  
><em>_**Disclaimer**__: I own nothing related to Harry Potter. This is an amateur, non-profit work._

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><p><em><strong>"It is still so new and all we see is empty space, but that is not how it is in the landscape of the heart. There, there is no empty space and he still laughs and grapples with ideas and plans and nods wisely with each of us in turn. We are proud to have known him. We are proud to have called him friend." — Story People<strong>_

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><p>She decided to travel the Muggle way.<p>

There was something soothing, almost therapeutic about going through the motions of traversing the Tube, jostling shoulders with distracted businessmen and overexcited tourists. She was just another nameless face in the crowd, making her way to St. Pancras. There was no horrible squeezing sensation, no tug behind her navel or gritty floo powder clinging to her skin: just an exorbitant fare, a swipe of a little pink ticket, and a gust of warm, oily smelling wind as she descended into the labyrinth beneath London.

It had been so long since she did this — decades, maybe. Somewhere along the line, St. Pancras had become St. Pancras International and received a posh makeover, rendering it almost unrecognisable to her nostalgic eyes. Midland Mainline was now East Midlands Trains, though she noticed with a burst of wistfulness that it seemed they had kept some of their old fleet in service. The train she boarded after filing through the ticket barrier was a rattling, ancient beast: the sort that predated automatic doors. Her hips, now wider from the combined effects of bearing two children and sitting behind a desk for the better part of twenty years, chafed against the stationary arm rests as she lowered herself into her assigned seat.

Save for her omnipresent handbag and its hodgepodge of contents, she carried nothing: no work to sift through, no novels to read during the journey. Instead, she opted to sit in silence, staring out the window as London gave way to rolling green hills and bright yellow rapeseed fields, which in turn eventually mingled with the industrial coldness of the East Midlands.

Beeston, at least, remained unchanged. It still had the same flavourless air of suburbia hanging over it, the same dark green wooden benches lining the platform in the station. A light spring drizzle fell on her when she exited the train, settling on her hair like cobwebs as she crossed the bridge and waited for the final leg of her journey to begin.

The train ride from Beeston to Attenborough was a "blink and you'll miss it" affair: only three minutes. Once there, she followed the signs that guided the way to the nature reserve until she reached the familiar house near St. Mary's Church. With trembling hands, she pushed open the rusted, creaking gate.

The garden was in shambles. Nettles had all but strangled the blackspot riddled roses, and dandelions seemed to outnumber blades of grass. Dilapidated as it was, the detached house looming ahead of her looked like a sprawling mansion in comparison to the cramped, mid-terraced house in Fulham where she and Ron had started their family. The thatching on the roof should have been replaced ten years ago, and pockets of graffiti littered the white and black timber-framed exterior. At least the windows seemed to still be intact.

Standing there in front of the ruins of the house that her great-aunt had left to her, she wanted to hit something — _hard_. Anger clouded her vision, making a furious scream threaten to claw its way up her throat.

It was such a waste.

Ron had been just shy of his forty-first birthday — so very, very young, especially in wizarding terms. Knowing that the end had been coming for months beforehand didn't make it any easier than a quick, sudden death. She wanted to lash out, to find someone — _anyone_ — to blame for the senselessness of it all.

It had been five years since she and Ron last came to this place, fresh from the reading of her great-aunt's will.

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><p><em>"Are you serious?" Ron asked, chuckling. "You really want to fix this place up the Muggle way?"<em>

_Crossing her arms over her chest, Hermione gave a decisive nod. "I do. I think it'd be a nice place for the kids to grow up, don't you? It used to be so lovely, Ron. Mum and Dad used to bring me here for a couple of weeks every summer. Aunt Theresa would take me walking around the nature reserve every morning back when she was still able to get around without a cane. I could jog there! With it so close, I'd have no excuse."_

_Ron flopped down on the sofa, coughing as his movements kicked up a billowing cloud of dust. Obviously struggling to hold back his amused grin, he looked up at Hermione with raised eyebrows._

_"You want to take up jogging, too?" he asked. "On top of renovating the house?"_

_"Well, yes. Work should be slowing down soon, so hopefully I'll have the time, and you know I never completely lost the weight I gained when I was pregnant with Hugo, so—"_

_Her words cut off with a startled laugh as her husband lunged forward, grabbed her around the waist, and hauled her onto his lap._

_"I think," he said in between pressing kisses along the length of her neck, "that you look bloody gorgeous just as you are."_

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><p>It was always that way.<p>

_When we have more time._

_When the kids are older._

_When things are less hectic at work_.

In the end, she never kept any of her promises. Their life together was forever put on hold, waiting for some mythical, far-off day when she would stop being busy. And then, suddenly, a healer in lime green robes shattered their illusions, told them there would be no more time.

Squaring her shoulders, Hermione marched up the mossy path. A few flakes of dull red paint rained off of the door as she jammed the key into the lock and swung it open with far more force than was necessary. The living room looked colourless, softened by a cloak of grey dust. She took her first steps into the house in a daze, barely registering the sound of approaching footsteps on the path outside.

A throat cleared: deep and male. She expected to see Harry when she glanced over her shoulder, but the man leaning against the doorjamb was taller, with a kind, round face. Narrow, faded scars criss-crossed his cheeks, mapping out the years he spent as an Auror.

"Ginny told me where to find you," he said, holding up a flat cardboard box. "I brought pizza. I reckoned you were probably sick of eating reheated casseroles by now."

Oh, was she _ever_. She'd lost count of the number of evenings she'd spent leaning over the sink, alone, eating lukewarm shepherd's pie (courtesy of Lavender and Dean) or lasagne (a barely edible offering from Luna and Rolf that Hermione suspected contained gurdyroots in lieu of garlic).

"Thank you, Neville," she said, stepping forward to let him envelop her in a warm, one-armed hug. "This is exactly what I need right now."

Together, they used their wands to whisk away the surrounding dust. When it was almost acceptable for human habitation, Neville conjured a soft tartan blanket and spread it out on the floor for an impromptu picnic. After getting situated on the floor, he helped himself to a slice that was teeming with pepperoni, sausage, onions, and jalapeños.

He didn't speak. He was just _there_: silent and familiar and accepting. Hermione appreciated it. Other people got nervous, filled the quiet with their own voices as they spun empty platitudes from their discomfort. Only Harry and the Weasleys had simply sat with her, rendered mute by their shared grief.

"Do you think the garden is salvageable?" she asked after a few minutes. Of all her friends, he would be the one who would know.

Neville let out a lengthy, pensive hum, straightening his back so he could see through a nearby dirt-clouded window. "It'll take a lot of work, but it's not beyond hope. I doubt you'll have to raze everything and start over. All it needs is a bit of care. It'll be okay." Shrugging one shoulder, he added, "D'you want some help?"

She nodded. "That'd be great, thanks. I want to do it the Muggle way, though."

"The best way for Muggle plants, if you ask me. If you use magic and dragon manure and the like, you end up with pumpkins like Hagrid's. Sort of conspicuous in a neighbourhood like this. I have a free day every other Saturday, and Easter hols are coming up. If you don't think Rose and Hugo will mind having one of their professors hanging around..."

And, just like that, they found their way into a conversation. It was as normal and natural as it could have been, given the circumstances. They didn't speak of Ron, but his presence hung over them, heavy in the air.

Now and then, Neville traced his index finger over the pale stripe of skin on his left hand: the place where his wedding band used to rest. It was a habit he'd had for the past year, ever since his divorce was finalised.

Hermione looked down at the two circles of gold and diamonds on her own finger, wondering if she would ever feel like she should remove them. She supposed it wasn't the same, since Neville's marriage ended by choice. Even now, so many years and fights later, the sight of her simple engagement ring still made her smile as her thoughts drifted back to Ron's proposal.

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><p><em>Ron and Hermione were stretched out together on the tatty orange sofa that she found in the Muggle flat she lived in during her first year of working in the Ministry, her back pressed against his chest. <em>It's A Wonderful Life_ blared on the television, interrupted every five minutes when Ron would either ask Hermione a question or go back to kissing her neck and sneaking his hand up the front of her jumper._

_"Marry me," he whispered as the tinkling of a greyscale bell granted Clarence his wings._

_The words were spoken without frills, without a big show. In the place of grand promises and flowery words, there was only steady certainty and a clasp of her hand. He didn't even have a ring. After she breathed out a giddy, "Yes," they raced hand-in-hand through the chilly December rain, searching for a jewellery shop._

_They were so happy that day, she thought they'd never stop smiling._

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><p>Hermione was wrapped in warmth, nestled on top of something that smelled like her grandmother's house after an invasion of mothballs. Yawning, she allowed her eyes to flutter open.<p>

The last thing she remembered was resting her head on Neville's strong shoulder as their conversation veered towards bittersweet reminiscing about their Hogwarts days. Now, she was curled up on her great-aunt's sofa, cocooned in Neville's conjured tartan blanket. He must have moved her and tucked her in after she fell asleep.

Weak morning light filtered through the trees outside, streaming in through the windows and illuminating the dust motes that floated through the air. Given that it hadn't yet been dusk when she dozed off the night before, it was the longest stretch of uninterrupted sleep she'd had since before Ron died.

Throwing the blanket aside, Hermione stood up and raked her fingers through her tangled hair.

Today was the day. Today, she was going to start doing all of those things she always promised Ron they would get to eventually: fixing up this house, jogging, driving lessons — all of it.

First things first: she needed to go see Harry.

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><p><em><strong>AN:** This is going to be a short one: just 8 chapters, according to my outline. Thanks for reading! :)_


	2. Chapter 2

Harry frowned, shifting his weight from foot to foot and scratching the back of his neck.

"I don't know about this, Hermione," he said, tapping his toe against the red 'L' badge on the front of Ron's old silver "dad car," as he'd once called it. "Wouldn't you rather learn from a Muggle driving instructor? I mean, they're qualified. I'm...not."

"No," she replied with a decisive nod. "Ron was going to teach me, eventually. I want someone who loved him to do so in his place. It just feels right."

Harry's dubious expression softened into one of pained fondness. "All right," he murmured, brushing a brotherly kiss against her forehead. "Get in. I'll do my best."

Hermione slid into the driver's seat, feeling a pang of loss as she moved it forward to accommodate her shorter legs. With some patient direction from Harry and much grinding of gears, she managed to pull the car out of its parking space next to the Burrow and bumped down the dirt road that led away from the house, moving in jerking stops and starts. It was rocky going, but it wasn't until they were crawling along the paved road to Ottery St. Catchpole that they encountered a real problem.

Hermione clung to the steering wheel with white-knuckled desperation, as though she thought holding onto it would be her only chance of surviving a crash. As she hunched over in her seat and ground her teeth together, she had a sinking feeling that she looked exactly like her grandmother.

"Oh my God! It's so fast."

Harry glanced at the speedometer "You're going 10 miles an hour."

"Hmph. It _feels_ a lot faster when I'm the one behind the wheel. Harry. Harry, there's a sheep in the road. HARRY. What do I do?

"Well, don't hit it."

She leaned on the horn, but the dingy white lump of wool in the middle of the road only blinked a few times in response.

"It's not moving!"

"Forget it. Hit the damn thing. We'll have lamb chops for dinner."

"Harry! That is _not_ a constructive answer."

He clapped a hand over his mouth in a failed attempt to smother a laugh. "Okay, okay. Just stop here, and I'll get out and try to chase it off."

The sheep wouldn't be moved by flailing arms, shouting, or stomping feet. In the end, Harry had to resort to taking out his wand and levitating the animal into a nearby pasture. It kept the same sedate, bored expression on its face the whole time.

"All right," Harry said as he hopped back into the passenger seat. "Now that the sheep is out of the way, do you want to try going a bit faster? Maybe aim for within ten miles of the speed limit?"

"Are you insane? It's 60 on this road, and there's barely enough space for two cars to pass each other."

"It's perfectly safe, Hermione."

"It's worse than a broom."

He grinned. "I could always try teaching you to fly instead."

"I think you know the answer to _that_."

"Come on, just try going a _little_ faster?"

Holding her breath, Hermione pressed down on the accelerator. Every twitch of her hands seemed to send the car wavering back and forth. If she hadn't been so afraid of glancing away from the road, she would have shot Harry a venomous glare for his cheery announcement of, "Oh, look, we're in America," after she drove on the right side for a few seconds.

The first bend in the road brought a bushy end to Hermione's first driving lesson. When writing out reports at work or brewing potions, she had the steadiest hand in the world, but put her in charge of heavy machinery and suddenly she was the portrait of jittery and nervous. Harry grabbed the steering wheel and tried to correct it when Hermione didn't turn quite hard enough, but they still went veering into the shrubbery that lined the road and came to a jarring stop.

"Err," Harry said, snorting out a laugh. "_That_ went well."

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><p>Something was different.<p>

Hermione tiptoed through the sodden, decomposing remnants of the fallen leaves from the previous autumn, examining the flowerbeds in the fading evening light as she went. Unless she was mistaken, there were markedly fewer weeds. Some helper had swooped in whilst she was out and cleared away enough nettles to give the neglected roses room to breathe.

She had a pretty good idea who the culprit was.

After marching into the house, she fished around in a side table for a quill and parchment and scribbled out a quick note to be carried to its recipient by her owl, Perdita.

_Neville,_

_Don't think I didn't notice that my garden had been tidied when I came home. You are too sneaky and too sweet for words. Thank you._

_Love,  
><em>_Hermione xx_

_PS: Next time, you should wait until I'm around to help._

As Perdita soared towards the horizon with the letter clutched in her talons, Hermione climbed the stairs to what was now her bedroom. Crossing her arms, she stared at the big bed that dominated the room with its snowy white sheets and puffy duvet. Bill, George, and Ginny had helped her move it and a few other things from the house in Fulham earlier that afternoon.

She'd tried to exhaust herself with driving lessons and running errands all over the place, thinking all day about how good it would feel to collapse into her familiar, soft bed and drift off to sleep.

It hadn't worked. She still couldn't stand the thought of sleeping alone in such a big bed. She didn't even want to stretch out and read a book. Grabbing a novel from the bedside table, she went back downstairs and situated herself on the sofa with Neville's conjured tartan blanket draped over her lap.

It still smelled like a room that hadn't been aired out in years, but the sofa was almost as wide as the last bed she'd shared with Ron.

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><p><em>Hermione let out a startled squeak, clinging to her husband to keep from tumbling out of bed as he rolled over. They could have — and probably should have — cast an Expansion Charm on the narrow single bed in his childhood room before she climbed into it with him, but she relished the feeling of being pressed up against him like this. It reminded her of the early days of their relationship, when he still lived with his parents and they had their whole lives stretching out in front of them.<em>

_"All right, love?" he asked, his voice hoarse and weak._

_Sighing, she smoothed a hand over his sparse ginger hair and kissed his forehead. He should have stayed in St. Mungo's, really, but he insisted on spending his remaining days at the Burrow._

_"I'm fine," she replied._

_"Mhm." With a wink and a chuckle, he grabbed a handful of her arse. "So you are."_

_She cracked a smile, but it vanished with his next words._

_"Listen, when I'm gone—"_

_"Ronald—"_

_"No. Let me say it. We both know it's coming. Why dance around it? I want you to be happy, okay?"_

_"Shh." Leaning forward, she silenced him by pressing a kiss to his chapped lips. "If you don't hush up with that sort of talk, I'm going to sick a flock of canaries on you."_

_He let out a raspy imitation of a laugh, his breath rattling in his chest._

_"All right, all right. Keep your damn birds to yourself. Just promise me one thing?"_

_"Anything."_

_"If you do end up...err...happy again, just make sure it's not with old Vicky." He paused, seeming to mull over Hermione's potential future suitors. "Or McLaggen. Or any of my brothers. Or anyone who was in Slytherin."_

_"Okay," she said, rolling her eyes and letting out an affectionate chuckle. "I promise."_

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><p>She woke up just before dawn on the first day the kids were home for Easter, her dreams of happier times interrupted by the obnoxious <em>BEEP BEEP BEEP<em> of her alarm clock. Her back ached from too many nights spent on the sofa, but she clambered to her feet and dressed as quickly as she could.

Breakfast consisted of a smoothie and a yogurt gulped down whilst standing in front of the fridge. Before apparating down to Devon, she crept into Rose and Hugo's bedrooms and kissed their cheeks as they slept — something she hadn't done since they were very little.

By the time Hermione's trainer-clad feet landed on the dewy grass near the Burrow, Luna was already waiting for her, looking like something out of a 1980's Muggle fitness video: sweatband, legwarmers, and all. For their inaugural jog, Luna had fashioned a strange device to strap Lorcan and Lysander to her back. Both boys were fast asleep, their thumbs resting in their open mouths and their heads drooping against their mother's shoulders.

"Hi, Hermione!" Luna said, performing a series of bizarre stretches.

"Morning, Luna. Thanks for doing this with me."

"Oh, it's no problem. It'll be fun. I haven't gone running since Rolf and I were on our honeymoon. That wasn't so much running for recreation as it was running for survival, though, so this probably won't be quite as exciting."

"Err, yes. I imagine it won't. Shall we?"

Luna didn't so much run as _skip_. Hermione huffed and puffed along next to her, struggling to remember why, exactly, she'd wanted to take up jogging.

The plan was to alternate their runs between Ottery St. Catchpole and Attenborough, trading off which jogging partner had to travel to the other. Hermione's calves ached and her lungs burned after just one loop around the village, but she forced herself to run after Luna up the steep hill that led to the tiny, ivy covered cemetery where Ron's body had been put to rest. On their way, Luna paused to pick a clump of fuzzy, hideous magenta and orange flowers.

The sun was still in the process of rising, casting everything in a soft pink glow. As Hermione unlatched the creaking iron gate, she stopped short at the sight of a familiar head of platinum blond hair.

For reasons she couldn't fathom, Draco Malfoy stood over Ron's grave.

Luna and Hermione had opted to visit Ron early in the morning because it was convenient, but Hermione was certain that Draco chose a time when most people were still asleep because he didn't want to risk being seen.

The last time she'd spared her former classmate a second thought had been the day Ron saved his life.

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><p><em>"Y'know," Ron said, pausing to kiss Hermione as he flung his coat over the banister and toed off his boots, "between me and Harry, Malfoy is going to end up owing about a million Life Debts."<em>

_"Really?" She raised her eyebrows. "What happened?"_

_"There was a really nasty fight in Diagon Alley earlier. I had to save the git. Some bloke who evidently had a bit of a grudge managed to get out 'Avada Ked—' before I Stunned him."_

_"Wow. I wonder what Malfoy did to him."_

_Ron shrugged. "No idea. Probably something to do with the war. There are still a lot of people out there who are pissed off that he didn't serve any time in Azkaban. Anyway, what's for dinner?"_

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><p>Luna sauntered up to Draco, an enigmatic smile plastered on her face. For his part, Draco did a remarkable job of imitating a deer caught in the headlights of a car.<p>

"He was, wasn't he?" Luna murmured.

Draco and Hermione exchanged a confused look, the former switching back to an expression of alarm when Luna wrapped her hand around one of his clenched fists and pried his fingers open.

There, resting in the centre of his palm, was a _Weasley is our King _badge that had seen better days.

Humming the old taunt in a voice loud enough to echo in the morning hush, Luna traced her fingers over the badge, rested her bouquet of ugly flowers against Ron's headstone, and pranced back down the path that led to the gate.

"Weasley is our King," she sang, "Weasley is our King. Weasley will make sure we win. Weasley is our King."

Draco gave Hermione the same curt nod he'd offered her at Kings Cross three years prior. Dazed and still panting from her run, she only just managed to nod back before spinning on her heel and hurrying after Luna.

She was certain she wasn't meant to see it, but right as Hermione stepped through the gate she caught a glimpse of Draco placing his old badge on top of Luna's flowers.

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><p><em><strong>AN:**__ The lyrics from Weasley is our King were, of course, written by JKR. _


	3. Chapter 3

"Don't worry," George said, beaming at Hermione as he fastened his seatbelt, "this is gonna be easy. I'm a much better teacher than Harry."

"Oh, you think so, do you?"

"Naturally. I spend all day shouting at kids who try to shoplift or sample merchandise; that's basically the same thing, right? I remember my teachers always yelled a lot, for some reason."

Groaning, Hermione rested her forehead against the steering wheel. "What am I _doing_?"

"Well, first of all, it helps to turn the car _on_," George replied, patting her shoulder. "We'll call that Lesson One. Now, Lesson Two: looking through the windscreen. Most people find it beneficial to see where they're going, but if you'd like to be a daredevil and drive as you are now, then hey, go ahead. I fully support your rebellion. Just let me transfigure something into a helmet..."

She swatted his hand as he began rifling through the glove box, inspiring a chuckle and a teasing nudge from him.

"Since you're not a fan of speed, why don't we try parallel parking to start?" he asked, waving his wand after a surreptitious look around for any nearby Muggles and conjuring up a pair of orange traffic cones. "Try to park along the side of the road without hitting either of the cones."

Hermione nodded, determined to put the knowledge she'd gleaned from studying the technique to good use. Pulling up until she was parallel with the front cone, she put one arm over the back of George's seat and looked over her shoulder as she prepared to back into the space he'd laid out.

"Uh, Hermione," George said, glancing in the wing mirror on his side. "Watch out, or this back wheel is going to—"

His warning came too late. With a crunch of gravel and a surprised yelp from Hermione, the back of the car slid into the ditch that ran next to the road.

"Oh, for the love of..." Hermione muttered, letting her head loll back against the headrest in a gesture of defeat.

"Well," George said, drawing out the single syllable as his lips twitched with the effort of holding in his laughter, "you didn't hit the cones! That deserves a P for effort."

"You're giving me a failing grade already? We've been at this for less than five minutes."

"_Is_ P failing?"

"_George_! You know it is."

"Pfft. I'll not have you accusing me of _knowing_ things. I just chose the highest grade I usually got. Very well, then, you may have a J. That sounds better, yeah? Several letters above P, at any rate." Drumming his thumbs against his knees, he gave her a shrug and a crooked smile. "So, what d'you reckon? Pub?"

"Oh, why not?" She laughed. "I could use a drink."

After leaping out of the car and wading through the muddy water in the ditch, George opened Hermione's door and offered her a hand out. Blinking at the glare of the sun overhead, she watched as he cast a Disillusionment Charm on the car.

"Eh, good enough," he muttered. "That'll do."

"You aren't going to at least _try_ to get it out?"

"When there's beer to be had?" he replied with a mock-scandalised expression. "That sort of silly question will earn you a Z in my class, young lady. We'll come back for it later; it'll be fine. Now," grabbing her hand, he tucked it into the crook of his elbow, "come along, my little student. The first round is on Professor Weasley."

A quarter of a mile down the road, they came upon a tiny pub with a faded gold sign proclaiming it to be the St. George & Dragon. It was the sort of country pub in which old men in hats looked up from their pints and stared at any unfamiliar newcomers in unison the instant the door opened, but this didn't seem to faze George. He sauntered over to an empty table, nodding at the patrons as he went and saying things like, "Walter, how's the family?" and, "Phil! Haven't seen you in ages, old chap."

By the confused looks that flitted over the other men's faces, Hermione guessed that their names weren't Walter and Phil.

She traced her thumbnail along a crack in the top of the dark wooden table and fiddled with barmats as George bought their drinks. When he returned with two pints and a broad smile, she patted his arm.

"Even though it wasn't exactly a successful lesson," she said, "thanks for trying."

George's responding smile was softer, gentler than his usual grin. "Hey," he said, "anything for my favourite sister-in-law."

Ignoring the pang that resonated through her chest at the unintentional reminder of her late husband, she forced a smirk and bumped her shoulder against his.

"Favourite, huh?" she said.

"Yep." George chuckled. "Don't tell Harry."

* * *

><p>Tilting her head to one side, Ginny tapped a finger against her freckled chin and chewed on her lower lip. "Err, what <em>is<em> it?"

Hermione shifted Lorcan so he was balanced on her hip, trying and failing to look horribly offended. If she hadn't been the one to make it, she wouldn't know what the lumpy, greyish green mass of glazed pottery was, either. Her ceramics class had a promising start, but things got a bit iffy when she put her creation in the kiln.

"I think I know," Harry said, "but that can't be right. I was _sure_ we got all of Voldemort's Horcruxes."

"_Harry_!" Hermione said, giving his shoulder a rough shove.

"Is it a hat?" Luna asked.

Snorting, Hermione shook her head.

"You say you paid someone to teach you how to make this?" Rolf asked, his expression brightening when Hermione gave an affirmative response. "_Fascinating_."

One corner of Neville's mouth lifted up in a boyish grin. Drawing his wand, he picked up the glob of hardened clay and said, "Aguamenti."

A jet of clear water filled the container, dribbling out of one corner and leaving a damp spot on the tablecloth.

"_Oh_," Ginny said. "It's a cup!"

"Not a very effective one," Harry replied, dabbing at the leaking water with a napkin.

"I wasn't finished," Neville said. "Orchideous."

A bouquet of white daisies with sunny yellow centres burst from Neville's wand. Smiling at Hermione, he plopped them into the misshapen pottery.

She didn't have the heart to tell him that it was supposed to be a bowl.

* * *

><p>Digging her trowel into the soft, moist soil, Hermione scooped out a space big enough to accommodate the flat of daisies that were waiting to be planted. The early summer sun shone on her back, warming her skin through the thin cotton of her dirt-smeared t-shirt.<p>

"It's looking a lot better already," Neville said, kneeling next to her and giving a stray dandelion a look as if it had insulted him as he yanked it out of the ground. "You did a good job with the vegetable garden; those tomatoes are really coming along nicely."

Hermione shuffled to her left, moving closer to him and wincing at the ache in the small of her back.

"How do you still have knees after spending so many years doing this?" she asked.

The sound of his gentle chuckle, though deeper and richer than it had been years ago, made her feel as though she was catapulted back to the days of DA meetings and whispered conversations in Potions class. When he laughed, the expression on Neville's face never failed to remind her of the boy she met on the Hogwarts Express.

"I'm not sure that I do," he said. "They probably eroded away ages ago."

Wiping her sweaty forehead with the back of her wrist, Hermione let out a choked laugh.

"You have to let me at least buy you dinner after all this," she said. "You've done so much work today, all without magic. If there was anything left of your knees before, I bet this afternoon got rid of it. You can use the second floor bathroom to clean up, and I'll find you..."

Her voice trailed off, the words _some clothes of Ron's to borrow_ dying in her throat. Closing her eyes, she pressed her lips into a thin line. As much as she loved Neville, she couldn't bear the thought of someone else wearing Ron's things. On her more morose days, she still opened the wardrobe where she'd stored his shirts and trousers and breathed in deep, inhaling what little remained of his fading, familiar smell.

"I'm not that dirty," Neville said, as if he could hear her thoughts. "My clothes will be fine with just a cleaning charm."

A heavy, comforting hand clasped her shoulder, followed by the fleeting touch of warm lips to her forehead. Hermione let out a ragged sigh.

"Thanks, Neville."

"Anytime."__


	4. Chapter 4

"It's all in the vehicle," Arthur said, adjusting his ever-crooked glasses to no avail. "Ron's—" his voice faltered on his late son's name, necessitating the clearing of his throat, "Ron's old car is too bulky for a beginner who is on the nervous side." He patted the dashboard of his Mini as if it was an old friend. "I think you'll find this much easier."

Just as Hermione slid the keys into the ignition, two freckled knuckles rapped out a rhythmic greeting against the rain-misted driver's side window.

"Hi!" George said, beaming at her as she rolled the window down. "Mind if I tag along?"

"Err, I suppose not," Hermione replied, "but won't you be uncomfortable squeezed into the back?"

He shrugged. "I'll manage. Hmm." Scratching his chin, he eyed the two doors of the car. "Tricky. Better apparate in. I don't know how Muggles manage it. Must all be contortionists or something."

With a crack that seemed, to Hermione's ears, far louder than necessary, George spun on the spot and reappeared stretched out across the backseat — inasmuch as one _could _stretch out there.

"Hold on, hold on," George said when Hermione once again prepared to start the car. "I'm not ready." Reaching into the rucksack he'd flung onto the seat next to him, he pulled out a bright yellow and blue helmet.

"George," Arthur said, shaking his head and looking as though he was fighting a smile.

"Safety first, Dad. Hermione is a hellion behind the wheel; trust me." Flashing his travelling companions an unrepentant grin, he fastened the chin strap on the helmet. "Okay, ready!"

To Hermione's relief, there were no other cars on the quiet, blessedly straight country lane. Arthur let her plod along at her own pace, providing occasional feedback with the sort of patience that could only be gained from raising seven Weasley children. Even George offered minimal commentary in the form of clutching the back of his father's seat and feigning distress every time Hermione accelerated a bit and approached what he teasingly referred to as "breakneck speed."

And then, the rain that had drenched Devon that morning picked up again.

"Just turn on the wipers there," Arthur said, his eyes widening in panic when Hermione jabbed a red button. "No! That's not—"

It was too late. The car lurched, the bonnet tilting up and the wheels leaving the ground. Hermione screamed, clinging to the steering wheel as they soared above the treetops.

"Really, Arthur?" she said, letting out an annoyed huff. "Another flying car? _Really_?"

"Well, I've never used the flying function. It's just nice to have the option," Arthur said, looking mildly abashed. "Probably best to keep this between us. Molly's blood pressure, you know."

"Aw, this brings back memories," George said. "I think the Ford Anglia was a smoother ride, though. Hey! Let's go to Harry and Ginny's and break him out for old time's sake."

"Not a chance," Hermione grumbled. "I'm getting this thing out of the air as soon as I can."

"All right, Hermione, stay calm," Arthur said, giving her shoulder a cautious pat. "Everything is going to be fine. Just ease up on the accelerator and try to coast the car into that field there."

"O-okay," she replied. "George?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I borrow that helmet for the landing?"

He chuckled. "Don't worry. I brought spares." Producing two more helmets — one neon orange, one baby pink — from his rucksack, he shoved the orange one over Hermione's hair and waved the pink one at his father. "Dad?"

"Oh, all right, then," Arthur said, accepting the helmet.

Hermione tried to keep her breathing steady and even as the ground seemed to rush up beneath them far too fast. Just as she was belatedly considering the benefits of casting a Cushioning Charm on the Mini, they landed with a jarring thud and skidded to a stop just inches from a gnarled old oak tree.

"There we are!" Arthur said with false brightness. "See? Safe and sound."

"If it's all the same to you," Hermione said, "I think I'll stick to Ron's old car from now on."

* * *

><p>Wiping the perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand, Hermione cast her tenth Cooling Charm of the day. Nothing seemed able to chase away the muggy July heat that cloaked the old house — especially when she had spent the past few hours doing manual labour.<p>

Looking around the kitchen at the crew of friends and family who were helping her to strip wallpaper, she frowned.

"Where's your sister?" she asked Hugo.

"I dunno," he replied, peeling a long, curled bit of wallpaper from the wall, balling it up, and flinging it at Albus. "Upstairs, I guess. She helped a little, then sneaked off."

Hermione groaned.

She'd wanted to surprise the kids by picking them up from Kings Cross in the car, on her own, but it wasn't meant to be. Instead of crowding into Harry and Ginny's car, as they'd done at Easter, she'd asked Percy for a lift in his oversized van, which had made Rose sulk the whole way up to Attenborough. She and Percy's youngest, Lucy, had bickered and tormented each other since they were toddlers.

Rose had been pouting ever since that car journey, which was by far the longest in Hermione's memory. She'd made up her mind by the end of it to get one of the fireplaces in the Attenborough house connected to the Floo Network before the kids went back to school in the autumn, just to avoid repeating it.

Hermione trudged up the stairs, the air around her growing even more humid as she moved towards the upper floor. Soft voices floating from the room where she kept Ron's things stopped her in her tracks en route to Rose's bedroom. Moving closer, she peeked through the half-open door.

Rose and Neville sat side-by-side on the dusty floor, surrounded by open boxes of tattered Chocolate Frog Cards. Rose's face was puffy, stained with the evidence of recent tears. In her hand, she held the Chocolate Frog Card that Ron had always been most proud of: his own.

"Really?" Rose said, a tiny, disbelieving smile curving her chapped lips. "You asked Mum _and_ Aunt Ginny?"

"Well, yeah," Neville replied. "Your mum had always been nice to me, helping me out in Potions. God, I was _so_ afraid of Professor Snape. I suppose that time she cast a Full Body-Bind Hex on me wasn't so nice, but hey."

"She did _what_?"

Neville laughed. "That's a story for another time, perhaps. Anyway, I asked Ginny to go as friends when your mum turned me down—"

"Why did Mum say no?"

"She already had a date. Your dad, being, well, _Ron_, waited until the last minute to ask her and ended up going with Padma Patil. You should have seen the look on his face when Hermione walked in on Viktor Krum's arm."

"Oh!" Rose said with a giggle. "Is _that_ why Dad always got grumpy when Mr. Krum visited?"

"Did he?" Neville asked, his smile evident in his voice. "Yeah, I reckon that's why."

As quietly as she could, given the creaky floorboards and groaning stairs, Hermione tiptoed back down to the kitchen and left them alone.

* * *

><p>"<em>Cancer, I know," Ron said, "but what the hell is a pancreas? Isn't it that station near Kings Cross?"<em>

"_That's St. Pancras," Hermione replied, clenching her eyes shut as if she thought the diagnosis would vanish if she couldn't see it. "The pancreas is an organ...it produces insulin and..." she broke off, her voice fading into a shuddering sob. "Oh, God. This c-can't be happening."_

"_Hey." Wrapping his arms around her waist from behind, he rested his chin on her shoulder. "Don't worry. I'll look it up in your encylowhatchacallits. You don't have to explain it to me." _

"_This...it's bad, Ron. Even with m-magic, there's not much of a chance that you'll—"_

"_Pfft." His wide grin and the teasing wave of his hand almost managed to convince her that he wasn't worried in the slightest. "You and I once helped save the world as we know it, love. What's saving little old me compared to that? It'll be easy. I'll be fine; just you wait and see."_

* * *

><p>Hermione gasped, reaching out for someone who wasn't there. Ron's face dissolved in front of her, leaving only the cold semidarkness of her living room. The familiar, deep timbre of his voice gave way to the high-pitched screech of her alarm clock.<p>

Time to run with Luna. At least it was an Attenborough day, so she wouldn't have to apparate down to Ottery St. Catchpole. After drying her watery eyes with some of the tissue that she kept on the table next to the sofa, she started getting ready to face her friend.

Bleary-eyed and yawning, she forced one foot in front of the other and stepped out into the bright, quiet morning. Where she expected to see a leg warmer clad Luna, Neville was waiting for her.

"Hey," he said. "Luna can't make it today; the boys aren't feeling well. She floo-called me and asked me to go in her place."

"Oh. You jog?"

"Used to, when I was an Auror. They made us run all the time during training."

Hermione felt a wave of unease. Running with Luna (who was content to skip circles around her when she slowed down on the climb up a hill) was one thing, but running with someone who was accustomed to racing along with a group of physically fit young Aurors?

Gah.

What happened to the chubby little boy she used to know?

"All right," she said, squaring her shoulders and promising herself she wouldn't allow a single moment of self-consciousness, even if anything on her body..._jiggled_. "The nature reserve is this way, just past the church. Luna and I usually walk there to warm up before we start running."

Neville was all easy smiles and friendly chatter during the brisk walk to the reserve. Apparently, he was a morning person. Now and then, he paused to mention the little known magical uses of seemingly ordinary Muggle weeds that grew along the footpath.

And then came the part Hermione had been dreading: the run. He slowed his long strides to match her pace, his "jogging" looking more like walking with a slight bounce.

"What happened with you and Hannah?" she said as they jogged past the cafe and went over a bridge. Smiling at the expression of confused surprise that ghosted over his face, she added, "It's just that...I never asked. I don't think it was even you who told me that you were splitting up; it was Harry or Ginny. I was so caught up in my own problems when it happened—"

"And understandably so." He scratched the rough stubble on his cheek, looking more uncomfortable than Hermione had seen him in years. "I didn't appreciate her. Well, we didn't appreciate each other, I suppose, but I was more at fault. Towards the end, we were more like flatmates than husband and wife — not even friends, really. Hannah tried to fix things, but we drifted apart. There was no big fight, no dramatic ending; things just sort of...faded."

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

"Ah, we're better off this way, I reckon." Shrugging his shoulders, he cleared his throat and quickened his steps. "Anyway, enough of that. Race you to that tree?"

"Pfft. You'll win. Without even running at full speed, you'll win."

He smiled. "How do you know if you don't try?"

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:**__ I swear, the disease I chose to give Ron was not inspired by the recent death of Steve Jobs. I've had it in my outline for months; the timing was just a coincidence._


	5. Chapter 5

"Who are you and what have you done with my mum?" Hugo asked, crossing his arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

"Oh, just hurry up and finish packing," Hermione replied. "Neville will be here any minute."

"Nice try, but you won't fool me with a bit of nagging. The mum _I_ know would never take two weeks off from work for a holiday."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione shoved a half-full suitcase at him and opened his sock drawer. "You caught me. I'm a Polyjuiced impostor, here to kidnap you and whisk you away to my mountain cave, where I will feed you gruel and make you organise my hairball collection. But first, you must pack plenty of clean socks and underwear."

Hugo grinned Ron's lopsided grin at her. "All right, since you're being so honest, I guess I can do that."

"Thank you. For your cooperation, you'll get the nice, chocolate flavoured gruel, and I might even give you one day off per year if I'm feeling generous." Dashing out into the hall, she shouted, "Rose! Are you ready to go?"

"Have been for hours," was the quiet, lackadaisical response.

Hermione found her daughter in the latter's bedroom, her bare feet propped up against the wall and her head dangling upside down over the edge of her narrow single bed. A few months ago, her auburn curls would have reached all the way to the floor, but she'd since had them chopped off into a short pixie cut. A glint of silver brought Hermione's attention to something else that was different: Rose had somehow managed to get yet another piercing in her ear without obtaining parental permission.

Biting back her knee-jerk question of why Rose needed any more holes in her head, Hermione nudged the two purple suitcases that sat in the middle of the floor and said, "Are these ready to go down?"

"Yeah," Rose said, "but remind me again why I can't get a lift with Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny."

"Well, since this is supposed to be a holiday that we're taking as a family, I thought you should spend _some_ time with Hugo and me before you vanish with your friends," Hermione said with an exasperated sigh. "Locking you in a car with us for five and a half hours seemed the most likely way of accomplishing that."

"Neville's not family."

"No, but he's as good as, and he's the only one with plenty of extra space in his car. I could always ring Uncle Percy and invite him to go along, if you'd rather get a lift with him."

"_Ugh_. No, thank you."

Laughing, Hermione flopped down on the floor next to the bed and ruffled her daughter's hair. This earned her a scowl and a disgruntled scoff.

"What's wrong, Rosie?" Hermione said softly. "I thought you liked Neville."

"Of course I like Neville. I just don't want to be bored the whole way to Cornwall. I'll end up staring out of the window the entire time if none of my friends are there. Can't Al come with us?"

Pursing her lips, Hermione rubbed circles on her already throbbing temples. "It's not going to kill you to spend a few hours without your friends."

The crunch of gravel under tyres saved Hermione from further bickering.

"That'll be Neville," she said. "Come on, Rose. Help me take this stuff downstairs."

* * *

><p>"Shotgun!" Hugo shouted.<p>

"Hey!" Hermione said, laughing. "No fair."

"I don't know," Neville said as he hauled two of their suitcases into the boot of his car. "It fell under the rules as far as I understand them. He waited until he was within eyeshot of the front seat before he called it."

Hermione grumbled. "You shouldn't know that; you're a Pureblood."

"Ah, but Hannah isn't. Her cousins on the Muggle side of her family taught me some useful stuff, though I still don't understand why they do that punch buggy thing."

Once they'd loaded up everything they needed for two weeks away from home and situated themselves in the car, Rose fished a little Muggle notebook out of her handbag and began scribbling something in secret with a glittery blue pen.

"Okay, Mum," she said as Neville pulled the car onto the road. "Say when."

Peering over Rose's shoulder, Hermione smiled to see a MASH square sketched out on the lined paper, filled in with her daughter's bubbly handwriting.

"When," she said.

Rose counted the rings of the spiral, then started marking things off around the square. Hermione let out laugh and a half-hearted protest when she saw the options for cars Rose had given her: feet, bicycle, piggyback on Uncle George, or being chauffeured around by friends and family for the rest of her life.

"Five, six, seven, eight," Rose said, smirking. "Aw, too bad, Professor Slughorn. Looks like you're going to be stuck with Gilderoy Lockhart, Mum. And you'll live in a shack, get around by being carried by Uncle George, and have...six, seven, eight...ha! Twenty-five children."

"Goodness. I hope George has a strong back. All right—" she snatched the notebook out of Rose's grasp, "—your turn, dear daughter. Let's see...husbands. Well, there's that charming portrait of Professor Snape, Kreacher—"

"Eww!" Rose squealed, erupting in giggles.

"You put me with Gilderoy Lockhart. You deserve every last one of these. Hmm, Gregory Goyle Junior, and—"

"Wait," Rose interrupted. "I have one."

To Hermione's complete astonishment, Rose scrawled Scorpius Malfoy's name in the last blank space.

"Really?" Hermione whispered, her stomach clenching with an uncomfortable, panicky feeling. "Since when?"

Rose shrugged, her freckled cheeks flooding with a blush. "A while."

"So, is this what you and Dominique do when you hide in a corner with a notebook at family gatherings?" Hermione asked as she filled in random numbers for the children section. "Play MASH?"

"Nope," Rose replied with a grin that indicated she wasn't about to tell her mother what they _really_ got up to. "I haven't played this game for years — not since Dudley's kids taught it to Al and Lily when we were little."

Hermione and Rose continued with the game as they travelled south amongst Hugo's incessant chatter and Neville's quiet, occasional responses. Both mother and daughter sat up higher and peered out of the window as soon as they got their first glimpse of the sea: turquoise and glittering and lined by sandy beaches that made Hermione wonder if they hadn't taken a Portkey to another country without her noticing. It was hard to believe that they were still in the UK. It looked more like a postcard from the magical, tropical island where she and Ron spent their honeymoon years ago.

* * *

><p><em>"Hermione, get off," Ron whined, shrugging away from her suncream slicked hands. "That stuff is horrible."<em>

_"Fine!" Exasperated, she slathered her own arms with the white goop. "Don't come crying to me when you get burnt to a crisp."_

_He stopped in his tracks, his shoulders tensing. She could hear his ragged breaths above the slow, gentle crash of the waves against the sand. The red colour that flooded into his ears had nothing to do with the oppressive heat._

_"You said this hike would take an hour at most, but it's been _four_," he said. "I'll blame you if I bloody well please, because it's _your_ fault that we're lost."_

_"We are not! We've been following the trail, see—"_

_Before she could unfurl her expertly folded map, Ron flung it over the edge of the cliff._

_"Oh, well done," she said with a scoff. "Now we'll be sure to find our way."_

_"I didn't even want to come on this stupid walk! It's our honeymoon! We're supposed to spend it indoors, shagging each other silly!"_

_"You want sex?" Throwing her bag to the side, she sprawled out on the sandy trail. "Fine. Get on with it, then."_

_Ron tilted his head to one side, giving her a wary look. "Hermione, come on. Get up."_

_"But I can't resist you," she said in a deadpan voice. "You just turned me on so much with your tirade. Take me. Take me now."_

_Her eyes were closed against the harsh sunlight, so it took her by surprise when she felt his weight settle on top of her._

_"Ron, what do you think you're—"_

_He cut her indignant words off with a kiss._

_They didn't find their hotel for another three hours, but neither of them seemed to mind._

_Ron didn't even complain about his sunburn._

* * *

><p>The only problem with St. Ives, as far as Hermione could see, was the other tourists. They clogged up the narrow, cobbled streets and swarmed the picturesque beaches, cluttering her view with pasty, exposed flesh. Sitting on the crowded, sun-warmed sand a few days after their arrival in Cornwall, she smiled to see Hugo, wearing one of his father's old hats, splashing in the surf with Rose, Albus, Neville, and Luna. Like her brother, Rose had claimed some of Ron's old things as her own; his oversized, ridiculous aviator sunglasses looked like something Luna would have chosen for her, but Rose wouldn't part with them for love nor money.<p>

Yawning, Hermione flung her book onto her beach towel. She was far too tired to concentrate on the woes of Helen Huntingdon and Gilbert Markham. Even though she was sharing a bed with Rose and Lily on this holiday, it still seemed too empty and quiet without Ron's snoring, spread-eagled form.

"He's a good kid, y'know," Neville said, flopping down next to her. A few drops of chilly saltwater hit her arm as he raked a hand through his hair and shot her a smile.

"Who?" she replied. "Hugo?"

"No — well, yes, him too, but I meant Scorpius. He's…much kinder than his father."

"Not a difficult accomplishment."

He laughed. "No, I suppose that isn't setting the bar very high, but I think you'd like him. He's one of my best students."

The sigh that she exhaled gusted over her arms and made gooseflesh prickle her skin where the seawater had landed.

"Ron was better at this," she said. "He was always the friend — the one they could talk to. I was the disciplinarian. And now…well, with them away at school for so many months, sometimes I feel like I don't know how to talk to my own kids."

"I think that's kind of a universal affliction among the parents of teenagers." Smiling, he bumped his damp shoulder against hers. "I reckon you're a lot better at talking to them than Gran was at talking to me. And anyway, how do you _really_ think Ron would have handled the news that Rose is interested in a Malfoy?"

Hermione couldn't help but chuckle. "Good point." Leaning against him, she added, "If you ever fancy a career change, you'd probably make an excellent counsellor. You always know just what to say."

His answer was spoken in a mutter, almost too quiet for her to hear.

"Not always."

* * *

><p>Without entirely knowing how it happened, Hermione found herself once again behind the wheel on the road that had witnessed her brief, ill-fated driving lesson with George. The kids had gone back to Hogwarts several weeks before, and the leaves on the surrounding trees were just starting to change from a lively green to bright red, orange, and yellow.<p>

She tried not to think of the black, rolling storm clouds in the distance as an omen of what was to come.

"Right," Ginny said, rubbing her hands together. "This is going to work. I know it will. Unlike your other so-called driving instructors, _I_ won't get distracted by staring at your chest. I'll be able to give your driving my full attention."

Hermione arched a single eyebrow. "They all did that, did they? Even Harry?"

"What can I say? He's a breast man."

"And your dad?"

Ginny made a noise that was somewhere between a gag and a laugh. "Err, maybe Dad is a breast man, too?" Waving her hands as if to wipe the subject from the air, she added, "Anyway, you're probably just over-thinking it. It's like when…when Ron first started playing as Keeper for the Gryffindor team. You can do this; you just need to relax. Let's see you try to parallel park."

Neither of them were able to say exactly how it happened after the fact, but five minutes later, Hermione and Ginny looked up at the dark sky from a very different angle: tilted to the left in the very same ditch Hermione had encountered with George.

"So, what d'you reckon?" Hermione said. "Pub?"

* * *

><p>Hermione shivered. After a day spent outside in the November fog, raking sodden leaves and getting the garden ready for winter, both she and Neville were soaked down to their wellies.<p>

She couldn't force him to make do with a Drying Charm — not after all he'd done.

It was time.

"Here," she said, using a wordless Accio to summon a pair of Ron's old Muggle jeans and his warmest jumper. "You can borrow these, if you want."

Neville hesitated, his hands hovering over the soft jumble of fabric in Hermione's outstretched hands. "Are you sure?"

Not trusting her voice to remain steady, she gave a firm nod.

"All right," he said. "Thanks. I'll just go get changed, and then the takeaway is on me this time."

* * *

><p>With a gasp of dismay, Hermione sat up and looked around in a frenzy. Her surroundings were familiar, but they weren't quite right. Instead of being curled up on her musty, narrow sofa, she was situated in the middle of smooth white sheets, acres of warm quilt, and a mountain of fluffy pillows. Light streamed in through the uncovered windows, illuminating every speck of dust that floated through the air. The reflection that greeted her in the gilt-framed mirror over her chest of drawers on the opposite side of the room was wild-eyed, with her hair in an impressive state of disarray, but for the first time in months, she looked well-rested.<p>

The last thing she remembered was munching on pizza and talking to a blanket-cloaked Neville until the wee hours of the morning. Ron hadn't been a tiny man, but his clothing was almost comically snug on Neville's larger frame. Instead of casting an Enlargement Charm and altering the clothes, Neville had grumbled a bit and accepted the blanket that Hermione offered him through a fit of teary giggles with a blush on his face.

He must have moved her upstairs after she dozed off.

Closing her eyes, she leaned back, hugged a pillow to her chest, and let herself drift back to sleep.__


	6. Chapter 6

Rubbing her gloved hands together for warmth, Hermione stared through the grimy windscreen of Teddy's car and wondered how, exactly, it had come to this.

She must have lost her damn mind.

Turquoise haired and bright eyed, Teddy sat in the passenger seat, brimming with enthusiasm. The cold didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. He gazed out at the hoary frost that cloaked the surrounding fields and skeletal trees, beaming with all the excitement of a child on Christmas morning.

For the love of Merlin, he _was_ a child. Well, twenty-two, but still. What was she _doing_?

She had changed this boy's nappies, and now he was going to try to teach her how to operate a car?

.

_"Ron," Hermione said, glancing at him over the edge of her book as he settled Teddy onto the changing table. "I'd be careful if I were you."_

_He scoffed. "It's just a nappy. How difficult can it be?"_

_Harry and Hermione exchanged an amused, knowing look. They'd both learnt their lessons the hard way. If Ron didn't want to bow to their comparative expertise, he deserved what he got._

_"There we are," Ron said, depositing the soiled nappy into the bin with a triumphant flourish. "See? We're doing just fine, aren't we, mate?"_

_It wasn't until he bent over and gave Teddy's bare belly a tickle that he learnt why it is important to get a fresh nappy on baby boys as soon as possible. Teddy giggled and squirmed, sending up a jet of yellow liquid that hit Ron smack in the middle of the forehead._

_Harry and Hermione roared with laughter, leaning on each other for support as their limbs grew weak from an excess of mirth._

_"Maaaate," Ron whined, scrubbing at his face with a cloth and looking as though he felt utterly betrayed by the wiggly baby, "that was a dirty trick. You _have_ to do it for my brother Percy sometime, okay?"_

.

"It's no more difficult than riding a broom, honest," Teddy said, grinning.

Hermione gave him a withering look.

He chuckled. "Oh, right. I forgot. Well, never mind. It'll be fine. You just need someone who isn't old and stuck in their ways to teach you." Waggling his eyebrows and leaning closer, he added, "I'm _more_ than happy to show you the ropes."

"Ted, need I remind you that you are currently living with my niece? Not to mention that I'm eighteen years your senior."

"No, I know all of that. What's your point?"

She gave his shoulder an affectionate swat, not quite managing to conceal the smile that sprang to her unwilling lips. Ever-changing hair aside, his looks had always reminded her of Remus. Personality-wise, on the other hand, Teddy was all Tonks.

"My point is that you should lose the suggestive tone, you impertinent boy."

His answering grin didn't hold even a drop of repentance. "Hey, it worked, didn't it? You're more relaxed. Now, why don't you start the car and we'll begin the lesson."

Hermione's hand reached for the gearshift as she turned the key in the ignition, only remembering when her fingers fell through empty air that Teddy drove an automatic. The car had been a gift from Harry upon the completion of Teddy's Auror training. Harry had claimed that he didn't think his godson had the attention span to remember to change gears.

And now, she was letting him teach her how to drive. Brilliant. He'd insisted that learning on an automatic would be easier on her, but she wasn't so sure. It was different from what she was accustomed to, and that alone made her uneasy.

The radio roared to life with the car, blaring out the Christmas songs that seemed omnipresent at this time of year. Hermione felt a pang of lonely nostalgia when a woman sang "Silent Night" in a haunting, a cappella soprano. It had been Hugo's favourite song when he was little; he'd insisted on having it sung to him at bedtime, after his story, no matter the time of year. She smiled to herself, remembering how Ron had always had to sing it at least two separate times when it was his turn, since Hugo demanded that he start over when he got the words wrong.

So engrossed was she in reminiscing that she didn't see the patch of ice on the road ahead.

Predictably, her driving lesson with Teddy ended about as well as her other attempts.

.

Snow crunched under three pairs of feet, the air filling with billowing clouds of steam produced by rapid breaths. All the world was washed in white, save for a few bright spots of colour: the red of a robin's breast, the yellow and green and sooty black of a train in the distance, and the vivid mishmash of patterns and textures decorating the three runners.

"Luna," George said, "_where_ did you buy those amazing leg-warmers? I must get myself a pair."

Hermione laughed, the joyful noise ringing out in the wintry quiet. George had yet to explain why he'd chosen to accompany her and Luna to the Nature Reserve that morning, but thus far he'd kept her chuckling the whole time.

"Your mother made them for me," Luna replied, wiggling a leg to show off the sparkly, blue and purple striped creations. "I chose the yarn and the pattern, though."

George gave a serious nod. "Excellent. I wonder if she'll knit me a pair to match my Christmas jumper."

They ran on in silence for a while, their steps steady and rhythmic. Luna kept casting sidelong glances at Hermione, a secret, dreamy grin lighting up her face.

"You're a lot faster these days, Hermione," Luna said eventually. "You're getting better."

Hermione had noticed it herself: the increased strength in her legs, the way her breath came easier and her heart didn't pound as hard when she jogged. The hips seemed there to stay, but her waist had narrowed a bit.

"That you are," George said.

"This is the first time you've come running with us," Hermione pointed out. "How would you know?"

"Well, I've got eyes, don't I?" He winked. "I can see the results for myself — particularly in the arse region."

Hermione snorted, almost slipping and falling on said region as they ran down a little hill. Even though he'd always been like an older brother to her, George had once made a habit of pretending to flirt with her every time she visited him at the shop — partly, she suspected, to provoke Ron, and partly to tease her into laughing.

As far as she could remember, he hadn't done it since Ron's death.

"Ah, too bad I have so much respect for Angelina and promised Ron I'd never end up with any of his brothers," she said, feigning a pout. "How can I resist such flattery?"

He smirked. "Ours is a forbidden love."

.

The post was already waiting for Hermione when she got home, including a drab little owl with an engraved invitation to the Ministry's annual Christmas do. Exhilarated from her run, she kicked off her snowy trainers and moved to peel off her sweat-dampened shirt. She turned just in time to see a wide-eyed Neville peering in through the window next to the door, his hand poised to knock. Pulling her shirt back down over her belly, she opened the door and greeted him with a sun-bright smile.

"Hey," she said. "Do you want to go to the Yule Ball with me?"

He blinked. "Is it fourth year already?"

"No, the Yule Ball at work. The Ministry has one every year, remember? I can't stand the thought of going alone, and since I turned you down for the one in fourth year, I thought I could make it up to you."

"Oh, right." One corner of his mouth lifted into a grin. "Well, I already told Viktor Krum I'd go with him—" Chuckling, he dodged her hand as she attempted to deliver a light swat to his arm. "Yeah, sure. I'd love to."

.

Neville in formal wear was not at all like Hermione remembered.

Hugo ushered him in as Rose was helping Hermione put the finishing touches on her hair. Mother and daughter both paused, jaws dropping open and eyes going wide. Instead of the traditional formal robes, Neville had opted for a tailored Muggle suit.

As much as she adored him, Hermione never thought she'd use the word "handsome" to describe her friend, but there he was, standing in front of her and looking _handsome_.

"Hel_lo_, Professor Longbottom," Rose murmured, just loud enough for her mother to hear.

Hermione dug an elbow into her side.

"Hi," Neville said, giving them a confused smile. "You look nice. Are you ready to go?"

Before Hermione could answer, Rose grabbed her arm and dragged her into the hallway, making some excuse to Neville about forgetting her handbag.

"Mum, is this a date?" she asked in a whisper once they were out of earshot.

"What? No. We're just friends, and I'm not...there's absolutely no way I'm ready for something like that."

Rose let out a relieved sigh from between pursed lips. "Good. Although, it's kind of a waste of that suit, too. Do me a favour, would you?"

"Hmm. Depends on the favour."

"Get a picture of him at some point tonight. I want to show Lily and Dominique." Biting her lower lip, she peeked around the edge of the doorframe. "Sweet Circe, he cleans up nice."

"Rose, _honestly_." Hermione rolled her eyes, but felt her lips curve into a grin against her will. Lowering her voice, she added, "He does, doesn't he?"

.

Hermione twirled around the dance floor with Neville, her cheeks pink from a combination of exertion and more elf-made wine than she would like to admit to drinking. The years hadn't made Neville graceful, by any stretch of the imagination, but to his credit, he managed to avoid trampling her feet.

"You're a much better dancer than Ron," he said with an inscrutable grin.

"Um, thanks?"

Neville laughed. "Oh, Merlin. He never told you?"

"Never told me what?"

"Well, we swore we'd never speak of it, but I assumed he would've at least told _you_. I told Hannah." His smile shifted from amused to wistful, his voice lowering to a deep whisper that she could barely hear above the music, even when he placed his lips next to her ear. "It happened during his first year of Auror training. We were sent on a mission together: undercover work at a charity fundraiser that was rumoured to be a scam run by Dark Wizards. In order to blend in and look less like two blokes who were there to spy, we were given a flask of Polyjuice."

"Oh, dear."

"Yeah." He was close enough that the sound of his chuckle felt as though it rumbled through Hermione's chest. "We argued for ages over who would drink it. I said that he should, since he was _Ron Weasley_, and therefore far more recognisable. He said that just as many people would notice me, given that I helped lead the DA during seventh year and killed Nagini. Also, I'd been an Auror for years by that point."

"Who drank it, in the end?"

"I did, but only because we were already thirty minutes late for our assignment. We could've carried on bickering all night if I hadn't. And so, I spent one horrible evening as a petite blonde woman, with Ron as my date. At some point we made the rather idiotic decision to take a turn around the dance floor — to blend, you understand."

She snorted. "Of course."

"It was a bit of a disaster. In hindsight, it's rather funny, but at the time it was just embarrassing. We both tried to lead and ended up stepping all over each other. We attracted far more attention than we would have done if we'd just stood there the whole time. When we'd completed our mission — unsuccessfully, might I add — we made a promise to pretend the whole thing never happened."

"_Men_," she said, shaking her head. "I don't see what was so bad about it. I wouldn't be at all embarrassed if I had to dress up as a man and dance with Ginny."

"Well, yeah, but you and Ginny probably wouldn't make complete tits of yourselves. Trust me: _we did_. I left out the part where one of us tripped. I maintain it was him, by the way. The whole ballroom got a nice view of my knickers when we fell down, thanks to that damn skirt. The pact to never tell another soul was my idea. If Ron had his way, he would've called me Nevillina and taken the piss every chance he got from then on."

Amidst her irrepressible laughter, Neville spun the two of them over to the bar and ordered two shots of Firewhiskey.

"Oh, goodness," Hermione said, wiping her eyes and struggling to catch her breath in between giggles. "Thanks for telling me about that."

"Anytime." Handing her one of the shots, he held up his own and added, "To Ron."

Hermione clinked her glass against his with a wicked grin.

"To Nevillina."

.

When Neville and Hermione all but fell through her front door, chuckling and talking in loud whispers, they found Hugo and Rose waiting for them and playing Wizard's Chess.

"Mum, are you _drunk_?" Hugo asked, looking both delighted and shocked.

"Absolutely not!" Hermione replied, ruining any credibility her denial had by stumbling on the living room rug.

Neville caught her around the waist, steadying her with a booming laugh that revealed his equally inebriated state.

"They're both pissed!" Rose said, grinning and placing her hands on her hips in an amused imitation of her mother. "All right, young lady. Up to bed with you."

"_Ooooh_, I think you're in trouble," Neville said in a stage whisper.

"So it would seem," Hermione replied with a muffled giggle.

Her children each accepted a goodnight kiss and hug, rolling their eyes at her before they returned to their game. Rather than let her fumble her way up the narrow, steep stairs on her own, Neville walked behind her, looking as though he expected her to fall at any moment. When they reached her bedroom, she slipped out of his jacket, which he'd placed around her shoulders to shelter her from the harsh December chill on their way back from the Ministry.

"Thanks for going with me tonight," she said, placing the jacket in his outstretched hand. "I had a lot of fun."

"Me too," he replied, wrapping his arms around her in a gentle embrace.

Hermione let out a contented sigh, resting her head against his chest. Even though he wasn't as soft and puffy as he used to be, Neville still gave some of the best hugs.

"Y'know," she said through a yawn, "I'm so glad we've kept in touch all these years. You were my first magical friend. You and Trevor."

She felt the warmth of his smile spread over her skin as he bent at the waist and brushed a fleeting kiss against her cheek.

"I'm glad, too. Night, Hermione. Thanks for inviting me."

"G'night."

After he was gone, she flopped onto her bed, still wearing her formal robes. Instead of staying sequestered on what had been her side when Ron was alive, as she'd been doing since she started sleeping in the bed again, she camped herself in the middle and spread her arms and legs out like a starfish.

The action felt bittersweet — like freedom and loss rolled into one big, confusing heap.

Even so, she fell asleep with a smile on her face.


	7. Chapter 7

_"Ronald."_

_"Hmm?"_

_He seemed untroubled by the dangerous edge in her voice. No apologies or excuses were offered; he kept piecing together the second toy broom he'd bought (as a backup, in case one of Rose's cousins came over to play), never once glancing up at his wife's increasingly stormy expression. Tapping her foot and crossing her arms, Hermione let out a frustrated groan when her toes met with a cuddly, squeaky toy otter instead of floorboards._

_"How many presents do you really think Rose needs?" she asked._

_"Well, it's her first Christmas..."_

_"She's two months old! Where are we going to put all of this stuff?"_

_"We'll find space." Shrugging one shoulder, he turned the toy broom over in his hands as if it was precious. "We can afford to spoil her a little on special occasions."_

_Hermione's anger melted away, dissolving into warm fondness and a rush of sympathy. Of course the boy she'd met on the Hogwarts Express with the dirt-smudged nose would want to go overboard with gifts for his first child; he'd grown up with hand-me-down robes and secondhand books and homemade jumpers. She hadn't considered the importance he would place on Rose not wanting for material possessions._

_"All right," she said, kneeling down on the floor next to him for a quick kiss, "but when her birthday comes around, will you at least _try_ to restrain yourself?"_

_Ron grinned. "I make no promises."_

* * *

><p>Crumpled bits of wrapping paper littered the floor: shrapnel from the explosion that had occurred when the Weasley and Potter children tore into their gifts. The whole family sat around the living room, sated and lazy from their recent meal, squeezing in on a chair or the sofa where they could. Most ended up sprawled out on the floor, cosying up to the paper and bows.<p>

Grinning at Hermione from across the room, George held up a leg and waved it back and forth to show that he'd put her gift on over his trousers: red and green striped leg-warmers that were quite similar to Luna's, save for the fact that they were slightly lumpier due to being knitted by Hermione.

As the day wore on, various friends stopped by to say hello and exchange gifts: a few of Victoire's former schoolmates who lived nearby; Rolf, Luna, and their boys; and, eventually, Neville. After greeting everyone and accepting several mince pies and a cup of tea from Mrs. Weasley, he motioned for Hermione to follow him into the kitchen.

"I didn't expect to see you today," she said, giving him a surprised smile. "I thought you had to stay at Hogwarts this year."

"I do," he replied. "I need to head back there as soon as I can, but I wanted to give this to you. I guess I could have sent an owl, but I wanted to see..."

Holding up a manilla envelope, he allowed his voice to trail off. Hermione thought she saw a hint of pink creep into his cheeks, colouring his face with a shy blush she hadn't often witnessed in the days since they were at Hogwarts together.

"Another gift?" she asked, furrowing her brow in confusion. They had traded presents the day after the Yule Ball (in a very quiet, subdued fashion, thanks to their hangovers). Just like many previous years, she'd given him a new rare plant for his ever-expanding collection, and he'd presented her with a book that she knew Madam Pince had helped him select.

He shook his head. "It wasn't planned. Dennis Creevey is the new Muggle Studies teacher, and earlier today he was showing me some of Colin's old photos — the ones that didn't make the cut for that book he published just after the war. When I saw this one, I asked him if I could make a copy. He said to go ahead, and if anyone else wants one, feel free to duplicate it as many times as you like."

The glossy image that slid into Hermione's hand when she opened the envelope and tipped it upside down was one she'd never seen. It was taken at a DA meeting, though which one, she did not know. She and Ron stood at the centre of the image, flanked by Fred and George. Fred had draped an arm over her shoulder and leaned in, whispering something that she wished with all her heart she could remember. It must have seemed so unimportant at the time: just another teasing comment that poured from his smiling mouth with ease. When Fred and George were around, there was never any danger of jokes being in short supply.

Awestruck, she watched as her photographic self adopted a haughty expression and said something to Fred that made George double over with laughter. Ron beamed at her, his smile resonating with something she would almost describe as pride mixed with a dash of longing. He inched closer to her, his hand twitching as if it wanted to reach out and hold hers.

"This is..." Hermione said, pressing her lips together and shaking her head when words failed her. Throwing her arms around Neville, she kissed his cheek and held him tight. "I love it. Thank you."

"My pleasure," was all he said before squeezing her hand in a silent farewell.

* * *

><p>It seemed absurd, unbelievable when the earth began to thaw, giving way to the dew-soaked freshness of spring. Signs of new life popped up all over her garden in tiny buds and early flowers.<p>

One year. Three hundred sixty-five days without Ron.

How could it feel both so near and so far away?

She worried that she was starting to forget him: the bits and pieces that had once been so commonplace that she took them for granted. Certain nuances of his voice, his laugh, his embrace weren't as clear as they used to be. Freckle by freckle, he was slipping away from her.

She decided to travel the Muggle way.

Walking through Attenborough's quiet, near-empty streets with her children after they were allowed to floo home from Hogwarts seemed more ceremonial, somehow — more fitting than a dizzy spin through the fireplace or popping to their destination via the uncomfortable squeeze of side-along apparition. Together, they boarded a train and sat at a white plastic table, watching the damp countryside race by in silence. The rain didn't let up until they reached Exeter four hours and one change later, where Arthur was waiting to drive them to Ottery St. Catchpole.

He left them at the cemetery gate with the promise of tea and biscuits back at the Burrow when they were through. He and Molly had already visited Ron earlier that day.

"I don't want to go in," Hugo said, coming to an abrupt stop and thrusting his bundle of tattered poppies into his sister's hands.

"Are you sure?" Hermione asked, placing a gentle arm around his shoulders.

He nodded. "I said goodbye a year ago. Once was enough. I don't wanna do it again."

Stuffing his fists into his pockets, he leaned against the wrought iron fence and gave her a stubborn frown that made him look very much like his father.

"All right," she whispered. "If that's what you want. Go ahead and walk to the Burrow, then. Rosie, are you coming?"

"Yeah."

Rose dashed ahead, as though she wanted a moment to say things that weren't meant for her mother's ears. Hermione hung back, taking her time as she wandered through the older, crumbling gravestones that jutted out of the ground like broken teeth. When Rose kissed her fingers and pressed them to the smooth marble of Ron's grave, Hermione closed the last few steps between them. Spinning around, Rose enveloped her in a fierce, tight hug — the sort she used to give when she was a little girl.

"I'm going to go catch up with Hugo," she said, taking Hermione completely by surprise by kissing her cheek. "See you in a bit, Mum."

Kneeling down on the wet grass, Hermione placed her bouquet of flowers at the base of Ron's headstone and let out a weak laugh.

"It's funny," she whispered. "We spent years trying to squeeze in a moment or two alone after the kids were born. Now, we suddenly have all the time in the world." Closing her eyes, she exhaled a jagged sigh. "I miss you."

She said nothing more. They had gone so far together and been through so much that there was no need for words. He would know what she meant even if she was silent — even if he wilfully chose to ignore what she meant, as he had done so often in life.

It was enough.

* * *

><p>"Miss Nott," Neville said as he opened his office door with an irritated flourish, "for the last time, your grade is not nego—<em>oh<em>." Smiling, he removed the reading glasses that Hermione hadn't realised he needed. "You aren't Araminta Nott."

"Not last I checked, no," she replied, nodding towards the flat cardboard box she held balanced on her hand. "I brought pizza."

He chuckled. "That is exactly what I need right now."

As he invited her in, Hermione eyed the towering stack of parchment that teetered on the edge of his desk next to a red-inked quill.

"Are you busy?" she asked. "I can come back another—"

"No, it's fine. I'm starving. I was just about to take a break and go down to the kitchen, anyway. Your timing is perfect."

Drawing his wand, he conjured a tartan blanket and spread it out on the floor. When he looked up again, Hermione had grabbed his quill and made a few notes on the topmost essay.

"Are you grading my students' papers?" he asked with a fond laugh.

"No, no. Just correcting a few spelling errors."

They sat down on the blanket, munching on slices of pizza in companionable silence. He didn't mention the significance of the date or even allude to the fact that it had been a year since Ron's passing. Hermione appreciated it. On this, of all days, she craved a few minutes of normality — or, at least, the new sort of normality that had been filtering into her life bit by bit.

"How's the garden?" he asked, snatching up the last piece of pizza and taking a big bite. "I haven't been down to see it in a while."

She smiled.

"Thriving."


	8. Chapter 8

Warm, yellow light and raucous birdsong filtered in through the open car windows. Gripping the steering wheel, Hermione looked out at the wide, green meadow that stretched before her.

"You don't have to worry about hitting anything here," Neville said. "Well, aside from the fence...and maybe the house, depending on whether the stories George told me about your driving are true."

Her responding laugh was accompanied by the squeak of skin sticking to leather as she wriggled around and tried to find a comfortable position on the bench seat.

"Ordinarily I would tell you to take anything George says with a whole barrel full of salt, but in this case, he may not be exaggerating," she said.

Neville's gran's old car was a mustard yellow beast that rivalled the Knight Bus in size. It rumbled beneath her with a few ominous clanks as she turned the key in the ignition, seeming as full of its own opinions and consciousness as the rusty Ford Anglia that was rumoured to still roam the wilds of the Forbidden Forest.

Rose and Hugo, home for the summer, were safely ensconced inside Neville's farmhouse on the opposite end of the field, far from their mother's latest attempt to master the art of driving. If Hermione knew her kids at all, Rose was probably reading something from Neville's library while Hugo played with one of Trevor's great-great-grandchildren and watched the lesson through a window, just in case Hermione crashed into anything.

With a sudden grin, Neville slid across the seat until he was sitting so close that she knew she wouldn't be able to drive without bumping the gearshift into his leg.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I was thinking about when I used to sit next to you in Potions," he replied, "and it gave me an idea. Just drive."

"But you aren't wearing a seat belt!"

"Hermione, we're in a bloody field." Shaking his head, he chuckled. "It's not like a lorry is going to crash into us. Go on. I trust you."

"I fear that trust is grievously misplaced, but don't say I didn't warn you."

As she let the car roll across the bumpy ground at a speed that would make a sloth impatient, he leaned his upper body closer and began whispering instructions in her ear. He smelled like ink and soap and something fresh and green. The way his breath gusted over her neck every time he spoke made it very difficult for Hermione to concentrate on what he was saying. The words seemed to bypass her mind, choosing instead to brush along her skin like a caress.

Her lower abdomen clenched and tingled as he moved even closer, heat flooding into her face. The sensation was simultaneously alarming and wonderful.

Swallowing hard, she closed her eyes against the conflicting emotions that roared through her body. She thought her eyelids fluttered shut for only a split-second, but apparently, that was long enough.

She crashed into the fence.

_Bumped_ would be a more accurate term, given her complete lack of any real speed, but it still jostled the rickety wooden structure enough to knock one of the railings to the ground.

"Well," Neville said, his voice coming out as a hoarse murmur. "That was...err."

With a nervous smile, she turned her head towards him. His cheeks were as red as hers felt.

The tingling hadn't gone away with the end of his whispers.

"So, what d'you reckon?" she said in an attempt to break the tension. "Pub?"

Neville laughed.

* * *

><p>Kneeling down between the rows of onions, Hermione attacked every weed that dared to stand in her path. She and Neville had planted far more vegetables this year. The tomato plants were so huge and bushy that if she didn't know better, she would have sworn that Neville enlarged them with magic. She was going to have to make dozens of jars of sauce and chutney and salsa to use them all up once autumn rolled around.<p>

Hugo leaned against the fence, watching her furious weeding with knowing, Ron-blue eyes.

Try as she might to banish the thoughts of her driving lesson that morning, her mind would not cooperate; it overflowed with images of Neville.

Neville in reading glasses. Neville dusted with smears of dirt and grinning as he helped her in the garden. Neville talking with Rose or laughing with Hugo. Neville offering comfort in the form of takeaway.

Neville in — oh, sweet Merlin — _formal wear_, spinning her around the dance floor.

"I've been thinking," Hugo said.

"Well, that's good," Hermione said, chucking a dismembered dandelion into the garden bin that she lugged along behind her. "You know I always encourage thinking. What is it you were thinking about?"

"Dad. He'd want you to be happy, I reckon."

Without waiting for a reply, he ran into the house, shouting for his owl as he let the front door slam behind him.

* * *

><p>Hermione stared at her murky outline in the foggy mirror. Patting herself dry with a towel, she drew in a deep breath as leftover steam from her shower swirled around the bathroom.<p>

Just as she'd done after every shower she'd taken since her wedding day, she picked up the two bands of gold that she'd left in a dish next to the sink for safekeeping. Hugo's words from earlier in the garden stopped her short as she moved to slide the rings back onto her finger.

Opening a drawer in the vanity, she placed her wedding and engagement rings inside the little magenta and orange jewellery box that Rose had made for her when she was eight.

Her hand felt strange and empty without the familiar weight, but she knew Ron would approve.

Well, no, not entirely. He'd probably get at least a little bit jealous, and perhaps he'd mention Viktor a few times, just for nostalgia's sake.

But Hugo was right: he'd want her to be happy.

* * *

><p>"Hey again," Hermione said, waving at Neville as she locked the front door and jogged to meet him. "This is the fourth day in a row that Luna's sent you as her replacement. Is she okay?"<p>

He shrugged. "I think so. You know Luna; she's probably on the verge of discovering a new species or inventing a magical alarm clock that will sweep her floors and brew gurdyroot tea."

Laughing, Hermione performed a few stretches and breathed in the cool morning air.

"You're probably right," she said. "Shall we?"

They walked to the nature reserve, their rapid footsteps carrying them faster than Hermione used to run when she and Luna first started their little routine. Once they started jogging around the trail that circled the reserve, she noticed with a swell of delight that he no longer had to shorten his long strides to accommodate her slower pace. His breaths came in quick gasps before hers did.

"What is that thing?" Neville asked as they passed a little wooden shed, squinting at the sign on the side.

"It's a bird watching hut. There are feeders outside, and you can sit and watch the birds through a window. It's not open this early in the day, though."

"Oh, really?"

Pulling his wand out of a pocket that would've made Mad-Eye scold him, he tapped the padlock on the door and said, "Alohomora."

"Neville, I'm shocked at you," she said with feigned sternness. "I can't believe a professor and former Auror is showing such blatant disregard for the rules."

He grinned. "I know a thing or two about rebellion. You coming in?"

"Of course."

The narrow room that they crept into boasted several charts displaying the different types of birds that could be found in the area, a chalkboard for visitors to record recent sightings, and countless teenagers' names carved into a long bench and littered across the walls.

There was plenty of room for them to spread out, but they sat close enough that their legs pressed together. They spoke in whispers — not so much because a sign above the window asked them to be quiet to avoid startling the birds, but because it seemed like loud voices would break the spell, transforming them back into a couple of responsible adults who no longer did things like barging into locked buildings.

"What are those things around the base of the feeder?" Neville asked, leaning forward in an attempt to get a better view. "Squirrels?"

"Err, I think they're rats."

"Oh. _Lovely_. Well, rats and graffiti...you can't say I've never taken you anywhere interesting."

She let out a quiet giggle. "Yes, it was clearly worth the risk of sneaking in here."

Abandoning their brief foray into disobedience, they continued their jog. When they reached her house again, Hermione invited him in for a cup of tea.

This time, when they lowered their voices, it was out of necessity. Rose and Hugo were still asleep, and the slightest noise tended to carry upstairs from the kitchen. Neville helped by fetching mugs from the cupboard as she set the kettle boiling and hunted for the missing teabags.

"Rose," she muttered once she spotted the tea on a high shelf. "She thinks it's funny to put things out of my reach now that she's taller than me. Where did I put my wand?"

Before she could retrieve the offending stick of vinewood from her handbag on the table, Neville appeared behind her. Reaching over her head, he grabbed the box of teabags and plopped it onto the counter.

"Thanks," she murmured.

"Anytime. I reckon I have at least a few years left before Rose is taller than me."

He didn't back up right away. He stayed there, warm and close, not saying a word. Just as she tilted her chin up and looked into his eyes, a resounding thump sounded from upstairs, making them jerk apart.

Hermione tended to the kettle, trying to calm the racing of her pulse.

Before the interruption, Neville had looked for all the world like he wanted to kiss her.

* * *

><p>"All right, Bessie," Hermione said, giving the dashboard a friendly pat. Neville's gran's car seemed like the sort of vehicle that needed a name, and Bessie suited it to a tee. "It's just you and me this time."<p>

With a steadying breath, she pulled forward and steered the car in a wide circle around the field. The rough terrain jostled her in her seat, but she managed several laps in both directions without hitting anything or maiming herself. She even managed to follow the same tracks through the long grass each time. Gaining confidence, she gradually picked up speed.

Steering came easier than it had before. Her attempts to brake were a bit jarring, but still an improvement.

The mended fence stuck out of the ground, seeming to challenge her. Bringing the car to a stop, she drew her wand and conjured two bright orange traffic cones along the meadow's edge.

It took five minutes of adjusting her wheels and more than a few muttered curses, but she didn't run into the cones or the fence. The end result was slightly crooked, but it was good enough to make a grin break out on her face. Leaping out of the car, she examined her handiwork.

She had parallel parked!

Sort of.

Elated, she turned towards the house. Neville stood in the open doorway, watching her with a wide smile that made her stomach do a nervous flip-flop.

This new, unspoken thing between them — this glimmer of potential for something more: it was scarier than driving — more frightening than flying a broom or hurtling through the air on top of a dragon. Hermione couldn't even pinpoint when it had started. Somewhere between the comfort, companionship, and laughter, she'd begun a free-fall, spinning out of control.

This fluttery, giddy sensation was dangerous. She knew all too well how deeply she could get hurt.

But oh, she could _live_.

Running across the field as fast as she could, she threw her arms around Neville with such enthusiasm that they almost toppled over. She felt as though she stood on the edge of a cliff with only two options available to her: turn back towards solitary, safe familiarity, or dive into the deep unknown.

Raising up onto her tiptoes after Neville regained his balance, she kissed him full on the mouth.

He responded almost instantly, only a quiet gasp betraying his shock before his soft lips began to move against hers in new, unfamiliar ways. She smiled into the kiss when their noses bumped together, and her heart welled up with too much fondness to bear when she felt his hands tremble as he placed them on her hips. Too soon, he pulled back.

"Are you sure?" he asked, giving her a gentle squeeze. "I don't think I can stand it if you decide that you regret this later."

* * *

><p><em>"Listen, when I'm gone—"<em>

_"Ronald—"_

_"No. Let me say it. We both know it's coming. Why dance around it? I want you to be happy, okay?"_

* * *

><p>Hermione beamed.<p>

"I'm sure."

There was no room for hesitance or second-guessing herself. If she was going to do this, she was going to do it bravely. Pressing her lips to Neville's once more, she teetered on the edge of that terrifying cliff and made her decision.

She jumped.

* * *

><p><em>The End<em>

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:** Thank you so much to everyone who has read this little story, and an extra thank you to those of you who took the time to review. And extra EXTRA big thanks to my beta, Callinectes, for just generally being awesome. :) _


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